Teaser: “Divine Comedy”

RIDDELL BLINKED repeatedly, in part as his eyes adjusted to the brightness of their surroundings, but also as he struggled to take in the vista that lay before him and the Doctor. It could hardly have contrasted more with the literal Hell the duo had just left.

They were stood on a dusty road that cut through a green and verdant land. To either side were lush, rolling hills, thick with a grass that rippled like the ocean in the breeze. The sky above was a beautiful, gleaming shade of yellow and studded with fluffy clouds. The road snaked away in front of them towards a walled city marked on the horizon by gleaming spires amidst its buildings.

“What is this—some sort of heaven?” Riddell spluttered.

“Now wouldn’t that be poetic, John,” replied the Doctor. He smiled, but then his brow darkened briefly as he added, “But, I sincerely doubt that. Besides, Heaven has pink grass, rainbow-coloured clouds, and much lighter gravity. No—right now, heaven is a blue box I call home. I do hope Marilyn isn’t fretting.”

There was a reflective moment of silence between the pair, during which Riddell wondered whether or not the Time Lord was joking about having visited Heaven. The moment passed. “Let’s hope we see the old girl again, at any rate,” the Doctor went on. “But for now, she remains impounded on Gallifrey. And, since these”—he jabbed frustratedly at his now useless time ring—“aren’t about to take us anywhere else, we are once again at the mercy of the Time Lords. Don’t forget, we are here in this supposed paradise only because it is their will. So, enjoy the view—but be on your guard.”

As if in response to the Doctor’s instruction, Riddell’s keen senses were the first to pick out the distant outline of a figure that was approaching them from the direction of the city. He broke the Doctor’s distracted reverie to point this out, and the duo started walking towards it.

Soon, the individual began to draw into better view. The fair-skinned, human-like figure was short, dressed in blue, decorative robes, and immaculately groomed with an impressive head of indigo hair curled into an elaborate quiff. The Doctor and Riddell exchanged glances and raised eyebrows to confirm that they could also both hear the man, who was engaged in a constant song. His gait was almost a skip as he danced in time with the broken melody, which had a light, lyrical air to it like some mystical, chromatic aria.

“Fascinating,” muttered the Doctor, breaking into an enchanted smile. The man was quite near to them now, and the colourful stitching embroidered into his robe seemed to represent some ornate, alien script. He was carrying a lidded basket that bounced along with his rhythmical stride.

“I’ve never heard anything quite like that before,” was the best Riddell could offer. “It sounds a little… odd. Unsettling, even. Is it rude to say I don’t really like it?”

“Probably,” replied the Doctor, “so please don’t do that. Instead, open your ears. One has to embrace cultures and languages entirely different from one’s own, John. When I say it’s fascinating, what I mean specifically is that it sounds like a part of a broader composition, a contralto in search of a chorus.”

“If you say so,” countered Riddell, unconvinced, as the man danced right up to them, still in full song. The Doctor introduced himself, but the stranger continued to sing without even missing a beat. The Doctor tried again, more loudly and even more energetically, but still elicited no interruption.

“Now who’s being rude,” suggested Riddell, earning himself one of the Doctor’s admonishing stares. Perhaps by way of response, the man reached into his robes and pulled out a printed card, which he handed to a perplexed Riddell. The Doctor crowded round to read the short message inscribed upon it:

TINTISSI IS THE HYMN.
THE HYMN IS A GIFT.
A GIFT IS LOVE.

Intrigued, the Doctor snatched the card from Riddell and turned it over. On its reverse there was a similar script to that on the stranger’s robes. “Perhaps these aren’t letters at all, John,” he mused. “They look mathematical in nature, not least in the regularity of the spacing. I’m guessing this is written music. Isn’t that wonderful?!”

Even as the duo continued to study the card, what they had now concluded to be some sort of the religious pilgrim bowed with a flourish to them both, continuing with his strange hymn. The Doctor doffed his Panama appreciatively, and the pilgrim continued dancing and singing on his way. Riddell followed his progress beyond them with a confused gaze as the song and its purveyor faded into the distance.

“Well,” concluded a seemingly delighted Doctor, “wasn’t that something, eh, John?! I wonder quite what to make of it all. Either this city is such a joyous place that our new friend there can’t stop singing, or he’s in need of some divine intervention. Let’s hope it’s the former, eh?”

Riddell went to make a less appreciative retort, then thought better of it, relying instead on a silent prayer that he was fairly certain would go unheeded.